


Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters

by MistressOfMalplaquet



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Gearhead!Betty, You just said it was a date, because I miss her, disastrous first dates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-16 20:50:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18698914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressOfMalplaquet/pseuds/MistressOfMalplaquet
Summary: "You just said, 'It's a date.'"Jughead decides he simply has to ask out Betty Cooper, except the entire universe seems to conspire against him.





	Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redcirce](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redcirce/gifts).



With a strangled groan, Jughead picks up his phone and dials Betty’s number for the fifth time. He’s chickened out at the last minute on the past four attempts. After all, he doesn’t _have_ to ask her on a date. The sun will keep shining, the world will still turn even if he doesn’t work up the courage to say, “Hey Betts, want to go to the movies with me and maybe a milkshake after?”

It doesn’t have to happen, except he knows it does. There’s no other choice, especially when Trev Brown came into the Blue & Gold office last week with a shy grin to “check that we were still on for tomorrow.”

“Of course!” The dusty florescent lights turned her hair to moonshine as Betty smiled back and said it was a date.

Ever since then, Jughead has been obsessing over asking her out, except somehow he can’t quite make it happen. Annoyance spikes his chest, and he smacks FP’s old kitchenette table with the back of his hand.

… which hits Bett’s contact. Instantly his phone buzzes, and a moment later a tinny voice answers. “Hello?”

Trembling, Jughead claps it to one ear. “Hello? Hi? Hey, it’s Jughead. Sorry, must have butt-dialed your number. Ha ha. But gosh, while we’re chatting, isthereanychanceyoudliketogoouttothemovieswithme?” The phone goes blankly, horribly silent, and he feels panic-sweat prickle on his brow. “Uh, Betts, I, uh…”

“This is Alice Cooper. I take it you wished to call my daughter via butt-dial, to use your words.”

Jughead collapses in the creaky chair. He’s dead. RIP Jones the third. Of all the phones in all the world, why did Alice Cooper have to pick up the one with him on the other line? “Sorry about that,” he says, voice cracking. “I won’t…”

“Mom!” There’s a kerfuffle on the other end of the line, and Betty’s voice replaces her mother’s. “Juggie, hey. Sorry about that. Hi!”

His heart leaps. “Hi.”

“Hi.” Betty giggles. “So, let’s stop saying Hi. What’s going on? Did you need help with that math homework?”

Like a drowning victim, Jughead clutches to the homework lifeline and asks her about quadratic equations. This leads to a story about a Bunsen burner and Reggie’s eyebrows, which leads to the horror of cafeteria meals, and ends with Betty’s impassioned speech on raising funds for Flint. As she draws breath, Jughead realizes they’ve been talking for nearly an hour.

“Well,” she concludes. “I’d better go and get started on that lit essay. But it was great to chat with…”

“Will you go to the movies with me tomorrow?”

And there it is. The question that’s been brewing in his mind for weeks, probably years if he’s honest.

“Oh. Like – oh. Sure! I like the movies. Want to meet me at the Twilight?”

Absolutely not, Jughead thinks. He wants every scrap of date-memory: picking her up, opening the door for her, driving slowly through the autumn evening, all of that. “Madam, my chariot awaits,” he announces. “I’ll be the one in the toga managing two white stallions.” Triumphant relief has obviously turned him into a 1040’s-era radio star.

She giggles again. “Well, I simply must meet those stallions. 8 it is.”

#

Fate has tortured him enough, Jughead decides. The memory of asking Alice Cooper out to the movies still makes him squirm with mortification, but it was worth it. Because - _he has a date._ With Betty. A date with Betty Cooper. He spends all afternoon wondering which sweater she’ll wear and if her ponytail will do that cute flippy-curly-bouncy thing when he says her name.

Jughead gets dressed and yells to FP that he’s going out. The trailer door slams behind him, the old stairs bounce under his boots. The October air splinters pleasantly against his skin, and a few lazy leaves skim onto the truck as he climbs into the cab. “This,” he tells the bobble-head dog on the dashboard, “is going to be the best night ever.”

And so it is for three wonderful minutes. He rolls down the window, leans one elbow on the door and skats Take Five as the truck bounces over the old paved road. It isn’t until he flicks on his indicator and turns left that Jughead realizes just how fucked he is. As soon as he spins the steering wheel, the truck’s horn begins to blare like a gassy giant: BLAT. BLAT. BLAT. BLAT.

“What the hell!” Jughead straightens out his steering wheel, and the horn dies out with one final blare. “Are you kidding me? What – _how_? _Why_?”

Cautiously he tries veering to the left again, and the horn farts out another tarantella of loud blats. In the right lane, an old man driving an Edsel jumps, shoots Jughead a startled glance, and actually clutches at his chest. He’s followed by a station wagon filled with at least five barking hounds, their ears flapping in the wind. A boy’s ketchup-stained face appears amidst the dogs, both hands waggling beside his ears. As Jughead’s truck raspberries past, the kid yells at him. “Nah nah nah NAH nah! You’re a dummy dumbo!”

There is simply no way in hell Jughead can pick up Betty in that truck – unless he can manage to avoid all left turns for the duration of their date. Hope flares in his chest, and he calls up a mental map of Riverdale. If he circles around, he’ll be able to spiral to the Twilight.

“You can do this,” Jughead tells himself in the rearview. “You’ve got a date with the prettiest, smartest, nicest girl in school. So get your act together, pick her up, and have fun. Ya dummy dumbo.”

Grinning, he drives to Betty’s house with only a few more unwanted beeps. He survives one final turn onto Elm and parks at the end of the driveway. The front door is illuminated by carriage-lamp that throws yellow cones of light onto the Coopers’s front stoop. Jughead raises one fist to knock, but the door flies open to reveal Betty, glowing in a simple white t-shirt and denim skirt.

“It’s for me, mom!” she declares. “No need to stop scrubbing the kitchen floor! I’m heading out with Juggie now, byeeee.”

She hooks her arm through his and drags him to the truck. “Sorry,” Betty adds in an undertone. “She’s been in rare form all day.”

Perhaps everything has been leading up to this moment. “You look like a girl who could use a giant tub of popcorn,” Jughead offers. He holds his breath as the truck backs out, but it stays blessedly silent.

“Popcorn sounds good,” Betty agrees. Twisting in her seat, she faces him and launches into a long description of what she learned during the “date” with Trev. “I think the football team’s keeping a slambook about girls they take out.” Her eyes slit into determined crescents. “And I’m putting a stop to it. What is this, the 1950’s? You should have heard some of the stuff they wrote about Veronica… No, on second thought, you shouldn’t. It’s disgusting.”

Although Trev is the last thing Jughead wants to discuss, his interest is piqued. “Where do you think they keep the book?”

“Don’t know. Yet.” She leans closer, lightly touches his knee, and asks, “Want to help me find it?”

Hell yeah, he wants to help her find it.

#

During the film (Rear Window) their hands keep brushing in the popcorn tub. At one point the projector peters out, giving them a few minutes together in darkness. Jughead uses it to his advantage, propping one arm on the back of her seat so he can listen as Betty whispers a few slam-book theories. “Maybe it’s under the bleachers or in the locker-room. Let’s go check it out on Monday.”

“Gym locker-room – the last place I ever want to visit. But of course I’ll go with you. God forbid someone like Reggie find you sniffing out those lockers. No, actually, don’t sniff them. Open them with great caution before looking inside. Sniffing would probably be bad.”

“True.” She curls into his arm, brow puckered as she considers the puzzle. “Or the book could be hidden in plain sight.”

Betty’s hair smells like shampoo and warmth, a classic Cooper scent. Jughead wills himself to stay in the moment, not get drunk on the feel of her and how close she is. “Plain sight.” He clears his throat. “That’s an interesting theory. We’ll test it on Monday.”

“On Monday.” Her smile displays the beautiful line of her jaw. “I can’t wait.”

#

The wind has whipped up when they go outside, making ragged clouds race across the moon. Betty’s arm is thrust through his, she’s confiding some of her frustrations about her mom, and it feels like they’re together inside a precious bubble.

Jughead is so intent on their conversation he doesn’t notice the soda cans blowing across the lot, a far-off fire engine, shouts from a couple of guys as they climb into an overloaded car. It takes Betty’s frown of disgust to bring him back to the present, to the world of cold and metallic reality.

Across the street, a group of football players in varsity jackets are yelling at them. Jughead sees Chuck Clayton, both hands cupped around his mouth. “Didn’t know you swung that way, Jones!” he yells. “Thought you liked dudes, not blond freaks!”

Chuck adds a final insult that’s so vile and dirty that Jughead sees red. Tearing his arm away from Betty’s, he bounds towards the group. “Don’t talk about her!” he shouts. “Don’t even look at her!”

“Jug.” Betty’s voice in his ear, her fist in his flannel. She repeats his name, pulling him back to the truck. “It’s not worth it.” He strains to get away, to reach Chuck and punch his stupid face, but her cool voice tickles his ear. “Please,” Betty says. “Please, Juggie.”

Jughead nods. He opens her door and hands her into the high seat before circling the truck, making sure the idiots get a good view of his double-barreled middle finger salute before slamming into the driver’s seat. “They can say whatever they want about me,” he grouses. “But no one talks that way about you. No one.”

The truck starts with a loud growl. Slamming his foot on the gas, Jughead drives to the street.

And.

Turns.

Left.

Instantly, the truck horn comes to life. BLAT! it hoots merrily. BLAT! BLAT! BLAT!

Betty shrieks. On the sidewalk, Chuck has actually fallen down with laughter. The jerk is kicking his legs, clutching his stomach, rolling back and forth on the concrete.

With a final burst of anger, Jughead leans over Betty to yell out of her open window. “You’re rolling in dog turds, asswipe!” he shouts before screeching away from the theater and Chuck’s gang of idiots.

The varsity mirth dies away. Jughead’s ride has apparently lost all control, since the horn refuses to shut up. He slams the steering wheel to try and make it stop, but nothing happens.

BLAT! it yelps. BLAT! BLAT!

“Here.” Betty sits forward, angles one arm up under the dash, and pulls a wire. The horn dies with one final prolonged bout of flatus.

Jughead jerks the truck to a stop and leans his forehead on both hands. “Some detective I make,” he moans. “Gee, let’s sneak into school and look for that slambook, except my truck will announce our entrance louder than a giant that ate a vat of beans.”

There is no response.

Slowly, they both sit up. Avoiding Betty’s gaze, Jughead shifts into drive and heads back onto the road.

“Guess that’s why you took the long route to the movies,” she comments.

“Uh huh. Guess so.” He doesn’t mean to grunt like a graceless Neanderthal, but their nice evening has been shattered. And by what? That pack of goons and a metal bag of dicks which Jughead would push into Sweetwater river for two nickels.

In deathly silence they drive back to her house. He meant to go to Pops and spring for milkshakes, but what girl in her right mind would want to sit with him now? Especially the sharpest and prettiest girl in Riverdale. His life is effectively over.

He pulls up at her house and cuts off the gas. “Sorry that this was such a disaster,” Jughead begins.

Betty interrupts. “Your horn won’t work anymore without the wire I pulled. If you come over tomorrow, we could work on it and fix the problem for good.”

“Yeah?” Jughead turns to face her. “You wouldn’t mind being seen with me after all that nonsense?”

“All what nonsense? A malfunctioning horn?” Betty clucks her tongue. “Please. I know for a fact that Chuck nearly drove into a stop sign while he was on a date with Veronica. Hit the gear with one knee while they were making out. And Nick puked on his radiator and ruined it for good. Don't even get me started on Reggie - he spilled milk in the backseat, and it will forevermore smell like a dead cow.” Her face dimples, and she begins to giggle. “The horn was kind of humorous though.”

“Blat,” Jughead agrees. “So – tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow. And Monday.”

It seems as good a time as any to hop out of the seat, help her out of the truck, and walk her to the Cooper’s door. Greatly daring, Jughead puts one arm around her slim waist, maybe to guide her up the steps, maybe just to feel the warm and steady reality of Betty Cooper.

Under the carriage lamp, Betty stops and looks up into his eyes. “I had a really nice time, Juggie.”

“Me too.”

Neither of them move, and he senses that this could be a Moment with a capital M. With great gentleness he cups her face. Jughead’s heart is about to burst out of his chest. He feels his lungs might explode. Every inch of his skin shudders with awareness of this girl, this amazing girl.

Betty’s eyelashes flutter shut, and she tilts her chin. Her lips are spread in a mischievous and mysterious smile. He feels her breath on his cheek. Moving slowly, he bends to close the final gap between them.

The door slams open, shattering the kiss before it happens. Alice Cooper stands with one rubber-gloved hand on her hip, nostrils practically emitting dragon-smoke. “You just got over that cold, and we don’t want your sinuses to act up. Now do we, Elizabeth!” She shakes a long and neon-pink index finger to punctuate her point.

Ignoring Betty’s cry of "Oh Mother," the glacial force that is Mrs. Cooper sweeps her daughter into the house. A last cry of “I’ll call you later, Juggie,” is cut off by the slam of the front door.

Jughead stares at it for a moment before returning reluctantly to the truck. Between the horn, Chuck Clayton, and Betty’s mother the date has been an epic disaster. But as he settles himself into the cab, his phone buzzes once, twice, three times with texts from Betty: _Sorry!_ and _She can be such a grizzly bear sometimes_ and _Will you still come over tomorrow?? Please????_

He’s got a farting truck, those three texts, and a date tomorrow. They’ll work together on Monday to shut down the whole slambook fiasco.

And there’s more, much more. Jughead will forever hold the memory of holding Betty’s face cupped in his hands, breathing the same air in that shivery and lovely moment coming just before a first kiss.

It’s been a disaster, an amazing and wonderful disaster. Whistling, Jughead plucks the beanie off his head and texts three words to Betty. He shifts into Drive, steps on the gas, and accelerates through a windy spangle of leaves on his triumphant return to the Southside.

**Author's Note:**

> For my friend redcirce.


End file.
